


Sitting Vigil

by lilidelafield



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-10
Updated: 2016-10-10
Packaged: 2018-08-20 14:54:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8253136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilidelafield/pseuds/lilidelafield
Summary: For Short affair challenge on LJ. Prompts were adapt/ black
Sitting Vigil over Napoleon in medical, Illya realises how much he owes to his friend.





	

Prompts; adapt / black

 

Illya sat hunched in his chair in medical, watching the steady rise and fall of his partner's chest. He was hooked up to goodness knew how many machines. When the doctors had tried to remove the ventilator, Napoleon had almost died. Now it seemed he was doing slightly better than before, but he was still unable to breathe without the ventilator.

 

It had been a little while since he had sat here in vigil for Napoleon. It was generally the other way around; Napoleon sitting here for Illya. This time though it seemed like nothing had gone right for Napoleon. It was supposed to have been a simple pick-up. Drive to a motel a few miles outside of town, pick up a package from reception marked `for the attention of Uncle Aloysius', then return to HQ. Simple. This time though it had been a trap.

 

Unlike THRUSH, there had been no capture or torturing for information. Simply someone lying in wait, equipped with a rifle. They had not bothered to shoot Napoleon himself. Whoever it was had stationed him or herself along the road, away from the city, waited until Napoleon was driving past in his car, and then shot out two of the tires. The car had veered out of control and off the road, down the embankment and ended up crumpled badly against a tree. Now Illya was sitting beside his friend, waiting for the first sign that Napoleon was coming back.

 

His face was white, looking whiter still against his **black** hair. His breathing, even with the help of the machines was shallow and laboured, and his heartbeat, though regular, was feeble. Illya hated to see his friend like that.

 

He remembered when he had first arrived in New York. He had spent some time in England, at Cambridge, and then his initial time with UNCLE had been with the London office before he had transferred back to Moscow after graduating from Survival school. Even so, reality of life in New York had come as an even greater shock than he had expected. It seemed that anything you wanted was there for the having. All you seemed to need was the money. The availability of food was greater here than he even remembered in England. Wherever he went in New York, he found shops, stalls and carts selling such a wide range of eatables that he had felt almost overwhelmed by it at first.

 

He remembered the first night in his flat he had been unable to sleep, and he had stood almost all night long, looking out of the window at the city that never seemed to tire itself, or stop for breath. Always, even in the wee hours of the morning there was traffic and bustle and twinkling lights. He had at first doubted that he would ever get used to it all. Such a strange and different way of life than that he had always been accustomed to.

 

He looked down at he still form lying in the bed. It had been Napoleon who had held out his hand to him, right from day one. Napoleon had eased him into the life of this Mega-City. Napoleon who had helped him to **adapt** to life in the western world.

 

It had been Napoleon too who had open-handedly welcomed him when many of his colleagues had remained aloof, uncertain at first about welcoming a Russian into their midst. Napoleon had, as CEA demanded high standards from his agents, but he made it almost his personal mission to go above and beyond the call to make sure that he followed his own rules himself. That Illya was so quickly accepted by all the staff here in the New York office, Illya was aware, was largely due to the example set by Napoleon Solo.

 

Illya wondered as he sat there, had he ever bothered to thank Napoleon for the way he had welcomed him and helped him those difficult first few weeks? No, he never had.

 

“Come on now my friend. It's time you stopped being lazy. You have a huge dinner to eat as soon as you are well enough. Carte blanche, whatever you like, wherever you like, to say thank you. Come on Napoleon, wake up.”

 

The hand he was holding twitched, and Illya looked up at the tired brown eyes of his friend. Napoleon was unable to speak, but he had his eyebrows raised slightly, as though asking a question. Illya smiled, trying vainly to hide his relief at seeing those warm brown eyes again.

“Did you hear what I just promised you?”

Feebly, Napoleon nodded. Illya could read easily what was in his friend's mind; what he would say if he could; `I'll hold you to that'. Illya squeezed his friend's hand.

“Well, I mean it my friend. But the deal is you have to get well first.”

This time, Napoleon pulled the mask away from his mouth and managed to whisper;

“Why?”

“For always being there for me. For being my friend. You're tired. Go to sleep my friend. I'll still be here when you wake up.”

Napoleon smiled weakly, and as he drifted back into a soothing, healing sleep, managed to whisper;

“Always.”

 


End file.
